


Meta Isn't Even a Word

by my_daroga



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_daroga/pseuds/my_daroga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard finds <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/shatnoy_rpf/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/shatnoy_rpf/"><b>shatnoy_rpf</b></a> and worries that Bill will be upset. Then he worries he won't be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meta Isn't Even a Word

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to the good people at [](http://community.livejournal.com/shatnoy_rpf/profile)[**shatnoy_rpf**](http://community.livejournal.com/shatnoy_rpf/) with love. I should point out that there are a lot of references to other peoples' fic in here, so if you aren't familiar it may make less sense.

Leonard had seen a lot in his day. He'd seen the drawings of himself—no, Spock—in handcuffs and a loincloth. Bill had laughed and made a suggestion Leonard had decidedly not complied with. He'd seen the zines, and he'd been intrigued on a cultural level that did not quite transcend his discomfort with the fact that even if it was Kirk and Spock these women were projecting their fantasies onto, one of them still wore his face.

He didn't think Bill had quite the same problem with that. But Bill was a delicate matter. Not that _he_ was delicate, not in the ordinary sense. Hell, he seemed to be everywhere these days, more than ever clogging up the internet with the sort of exposure Leonard thought was ridiculous but probably harmless and said a lot more about Bill Shatner in the very fact of it than in anything Bill Shatner actually said. But he wasn't sure what to do with this new knowledge.

Because this wasn't about Kirk and Spock, which Leonard had started ignoring a long time ago (though he'd warned Zach and Chris about it, only to have them glance at each other and giggle and he'd decided he didn't want to know) and didn't bother him anymore. He was pretty sure Bill didn't know he knew about the collection of zines and more recent printouts. People needed their heroes, and sometimes he guessed they needed them to screw, and that wasn't really any of his business. Maybe Bill needed his heroes, too, and the fact that one of them was more or less an idealized version of himself was both typical and, at this point, just part of living with Bill. As long as Leonard wasn't expected to be Spock, he had no problem with that.

Only now, it seemed he wasn't being asked to be Spock anymore. Which, perversely, was what had led to him sitting in front of his computer and trying to think through this thing logically. Okay. Stories about the characters were nothing new. He got that. The drawings and doctored photos were just an offshoot of that. It made sense that the new movie would provoke a similar reaction from new fans, with the new kids. And he supposed that the idea of writing about Chris and Zach wasn't all that surprising when you considered the new media, the magazines and internet videos and the business of supplying private lives for public consumption. Even he was impressed with the way Bill had managed to make a career out of being Bill Shatner, which in Leonard's unvoiced opinion had been his way of getting away from being Kirk.

But who the hell wanted to read stories about old men having sex? Or... Leonard squinted through his glasses at the screen. The time he opened a pet shop? Okay, that was sort of amusing, if ridiculous. And the one about going to the movie together was... strangely accurate. That was creepy. But it was profoundly disturbing to wonder what sort of minds got their kicks by delving through interviews and autobiographies and dear god, where had that photo of the Buick come from?

He'd never be able to look Zach in the eye again.

And he knew he couldn't tell Bill. There was stuff in here, stuff he'd forgotten about, stuff that was both so far off base and so close to home that it made him ache. And yet he kept reading. None of it had happened this way; it had been both less ridiculous and more absurd, more sudden and more organic and unfolding and how could words really encompass what they were to each other?

And what possible interest could a stranger have in this sort of speculation?

This could be bad, Leonard thought. Bill would go on about how carefully he'd constructed his image, which was patent bullshit as far as Leonard was concerned since Bill's basic strategy seemed to consist of selling off every part of himself. Leonard didn't mind, because there always seemed to be more. But that didn't change the fact that this was different. And Bill would be mad. Either mad, or... Leonard didn't even want to consider the other option.

He was forced to. Bill wasn't mad.

He came strolling in, preceded by one of the dogs—Leonard wasn't sure which—that Bill thought so resembled him. Secretly, Bill reminded Leonard of nothing so much as a Labrador Retriever, all headstrong bravery, a tendency to overeat, and the ability to reconcile unfailing loyalty with the inability to resist any hand that reached out. That Bill _thought_ he was a Doberman was one of the many absurdities Leonard loved best about him. He kept that a secret, too.

"Whatcha doing?" he asked brightly, and Leonard hastened to hide it from view but only managed to expand the YouTube window displaying some old talk show with them.

Bill burst out laughing. "What the hell was I doing to you?" he asked. "I don't even remember that." Leonard didn't tell him that someone had somehow taken that clip and made a repeating image of Bill molesting his stomach on national television. "What was I complaining about, anyway? I was a twig back then." Bill had never been a twig, but Leonard didn't say that either, because it didn't need to be said and they both knew that they were both comfortable with what they were to each other.

Leonard closed the video and shut off the screen, which made Bill look at him funny. "So, just strolling down memory lane?" he asked as if he didn't believe it. "It's amazing what you can find online," he continued blithely, having already decided that Leonard's answer—should he have one—would be inadequate. "Did you read the one about the time we fucked anonymously during _U.N.C.L.E._? My god, that would have been smokin'. I kind of want to go watch that show again right now."

Leonard stared at him. Bill just looked down, enjoying his height and enjoying _this_.

"What?" Leonard's mouth felt curiously dry. He should have expected this. He knew that now.

"You know," he said, that devilish twinkle in his eyes. "So desperate and awkward and _hot_. Or getting caught by a fan who's a cop. At our age! Wouldn't that have been hilarious?" He laid a heavy hand on Leonard's shoulder.

"No," Leonard protested. "Bill, this... these are our _lives_. This isn't Spock and Kirk again."

"Kirk and Spock," Bill corrected automatically. Leonard only just kept from rolling his eyes by a tremendous force of will. "And anyway, it's sweet. People care. People care enough about us to write stories where we aren't even heroes. We're just us, just people. With flaws and... and all old. You, I mean."

Yes, this was worse than Leonard had imagined. Bill felt loved. And there was little he could do to stop him from chasing that feeling.

"I wish you still had that Buick," Bill said wistfully.

The next day, Leonard came in to drop off some exposed film and found Bill at the keyboard, pecking away furiously, a manic grin on his face.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing," was the only reply.

Bill was often writing, though usually "writing" consisted of "sitting outside with a voice recorder and rambling long enough to give some poor secretary a job." Which would then be carefully crafted into... something that read uncannily like someone rambling into a voice recorder.

"Writing what?"

"About our conversation yesterday. It's an interesting opportunity."

The sinking feeling in Leonard's gut was, sadly, extremely familiar. "What sort of opportunity?"

"To do something that hasn't been done before," Bill said happily, hitting the Enter key decisively and turning to face him. "Don't you want me to try new things?"

"Bill, I have never needed to have an opinion about you and new things. You've never given me a chance to see what the alternative would be like. So what's your... opportunity?"

"Fiction," Bill said. "With a twist."

Leonard sank into the other chair to join his gut. "I don't think this is a good idea, Bill," he began with very little hope. "This is..." He'd been about to say "private," but what did that mean to WilliamShanter.com?

Bill's voice, when he spoke, was oddly gentle. "But it's all about constructed realities, Leonard."

"Bill."

"What?"

"Wait. Did you just write 'constructed realities'? As if you'd said it, and not me, yesterday?"

"Who's writing this, you or me?"

"What are you doing now? Are you actually writing down this conversation?"

"No. Okay, well, maybe. For truth!"

"Truth." There was a pause. "So you want anyone reading this to know that you tried to pass off my conclusions as your own, that you were editing our conversation, and that I caught you at it?"

Bill's expression was open and guileless.

"Why not? It's meta."

"Meta-what? That's not even a word. Do you have any idea what you're talking about?"

"No. But according to what I see here, I'm the definition of meta."

Bill, of course, could not merely be "a good example" of meta. Whatever that was. Leonard leaned over and scrolled up, recognizing he'd allowed Bill to derail the conversation yet again. "It doesn't sound like you."

"I know, it's not supposed to."

"It doesn't sound like me, either." When he looked up, Bill was pouting at him.

"You're too weird," he said. "And anyway, it doesn't matter. They won't care. It's mostly written in third-person limited—usually with you, so I can be all crazy-adorable."

It was like a nightmare. "Bill," Leonard said. He felt like he spent a good deal of time repeating Bill's name in the same patient tone. Then again, Bill _loved_ to hear him say it, so at least it worked. "Don't you think this is... well this is private. Even for you, this is over the line."

"How so?"

"For god's sake, Bill, we're real people! This is our private life! It's one thing to repeat the things I've said publicly. Another to out us in meta-fiction or whatever you're doing."

Bill shrugged.

"I don't see the difference."

Leonard sighed. "You wouldn't."

Bill smiled, and pressed a hand to Leonard's where it rested on his knee. "Leonard. Don't worry about it. All this?" He gestured with his other hand. "Us living together, the sex, all of that? Isn't real, either. We're not even together—I just wrote you that way."

Leonard stared at him, flabbergasted. His mouth opened, and then shut. Then opened again. "What?"

"It's fiction. It's a story."

"How can you say that?"

"I can say whatever I want. It's _my_ story. And in this story, we're together, I write about it, and you... stop arguing." Bill beamed at him, the old twinkle in his eye, and Leonard found he couldn't resist. He felt himself caving, as he almost always did unless (he told himself) there was a principle involved that he truly cared about. Bill made very little sense a lot of the time, unless you went with your gut, like he did. Leonard had learned when to do that.

"So there's nothing I can do," he said finally, watching Bill as if he _was_ a Doberman.

"Oh, there's one thing you can do," Bill said slyly. "In my story, you still have that Buick. And it's barely possible I might allow you fuck me—carefully--on the hood."


End file.
